


Clippings

by Tridraconeus



Series: The Vineyard of the Damned [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Family Discussions, Gen, Post-Low Chaos Ending, tags and characters added as they occur, talk of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-02-06 19:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12824175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: Things that didn't make the cut in Vineyard of the Damned. Unpolished and generally unedited, but I had lots of fun writing them.





	1. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:**

> please don't question what happens in here too much. this originally stretched on for 5000(!!) words and included convincing Emily and Corvo to tag along to punk the Eyeless. Then I cut it down... then I cut it out entirely. The foundation is there, and I'll probably post a snippet in here later.  
> Also, just in case I wasn't obvious enough about it, Daud is basically carrying out the events of DOTO all by his lonesome and I had it come to a head in this chapter.

Daud returned two days later, sporting bruises and claiming half the house's supply of Addermire solution. Somehow, Billie did not believe that he’d acquired the most damning bruises and cuts during a particularly spirited bartering session. She didn’t ask; he wasn’t forthcoming with answers.  _Somehow_ , she forced herself not to get upset about it. She'd done some preliminary snooping in his room—her reasoning that if he didn’t want her to snoop, he wouldn’t give her the opportunity. 

The day before he came home—came back, Billie reminded herself, too sharply for her liking—she _took_ the opportunity to do some reconnaissance of his room. A few flicks through his dog-eared journal wasn’t very useful, and the audiographs talked more about the vineyard than anything else, which she couldn’t help but find reassuring despite all evidence pointing to Daud spending more time in Karnaca than anywhere else. Billie tried not to think of this as putting down roots—not only because it was thematically ironic, but also because she knew somehow that like all good things, it could not last. Uncharitable, a voice in the back of her head chided, sounding entirely too much like herself for her own comfort. She left the journal where she found it and the audiographs in a neat stack. Daud might disapprove of her reading his journal.

This was the man who left his journal unprotected in his office, though…

What guilt Billie might have felt instantly soothed itself with that reminder. None of them were very good at guarding their privacy, evidently. She'd read Thomas' journal fifteen years ago, too. 

Down in the kitchen, Daud sat over a plate of eggs. The fact that they looked a little soggy and undercooked informed Billie that yes, he’d made them himself, still recovering from the cage even now. Even when he was the leader of a feared gang of assassins, Daud had the terrible habit of swiping food from clients and targets; Billie, too. They all did. It was a bad habit, but not the worst, but now it was beginning to catch up to them. At least Rinaldo could cook, and Domenico evidently picked up some unnecessarily fancy baking skills while marauding with _bandits_. 

She didn't get it.

She didn't get an awful lot of things, lately. 

“Billie.”

Daud, calling her over. Billie waved in acknowledgement and snagged a mug of coffee-- more than half-full and still warm, so likely Rulfio's-- from the counter. She sat down across from him and finished a sip of the coffee. Set it down, a dull clink of ceramics against wood. 

“I have a question for you.” The low rasp in his voice might have served to disarm her when she was younger. As of now, it reminded her of smoking cigarettes over the edge of the Dreadful Wale. 

“Ask away.” 

Daud leaned forward and put a hand on his knee, entire body gaining a strange weight, warning showing through his posture. He'd planned this; or maybe decided to capitalize on an opportunity. To do _what_ , she didn't know. Billie internally balked.

“What happened to Jeanette Lee, Billie?” 

Damn. Billie pursed her lips and tried to think of a suitable way to phrase it. She didn't approve of what Thomas had done-- she also wasn't about to toss him in front of the carriage. Daud, as ruthless as he used to be, was not quite so now; once, she had betrayed him for it.  

“Thomas is allowed his secrets.”

Daud frowned. Billie forcefully reminded herself that she wasn't under his command anymore; she answered wholly to herself. Jeanette's blood was on both their hands; she wasn't sure who was more at fault. 

“Not from me.”  

Billie curled her lip. “Ask him yourself.” 

Daud's voice hardened, a flinty edge he didn't often use. When he did, she knew well enough to listen; even after fifteen years. “You're not the only one with an ulterior motive, Billie.”

She breathed in, slowly. Reminded herself again that she didn't have to answer. She thought of Daud's suspicious, day-long absences; the scattered scraps of paper and the pins stuck in the map in his room. He was asking  _her_  for a reason. With a resigned shake of her head, she gathered her words and memories for an answer. Betrayal came naturally to one such as her, nevermind that Thomas would answer far more easily. 

“He pitted her against her own untrained hounds. It was a distraction.” 

“A distraction that got her faction of Eyeless as angry as a shot bloodfly nest.” Daud wasn't foolish, and he noticed the change in his former second after as surely as the rest of them had, or at least Billie assumed. 

“You've been tracking the movement of the Eyeless?” Despite herself and her snooping and _Daud_ , she still wanted to believe that he'd properly given up the assassin work-- that he'd stayed true to the rumors, now if not before. 

“They did burn down Rulfio's house.”

Billie laughed, and allowed herself to be reassured. 

 *

She caught Daud leaving with a small pack of supplies, thus both confirming her expectations and disappointing her immensely.

“Daud. Going for supplies?”

That was as much an out as it was an accusation. Daud responded exactly as she assumed; lips twitching, a smile as much as it was irritation.

“Some old friends are in Karnaca.” He said  _friends_  as one may suck on a bitter lozenge. She had an idea-- she still asked. 

“Old friends?” Billie tilted her head.

“The Empress and her attack hound.”

Attack hound. Billie snorted. “Attack hound? Easy for you to say, old man.” 

He grumbled under his breath. “Maybe you're satisfied with knowing you're only alive due to their mercy. I am not.” 

Billie curled her lip and took a long stride forward, cutting in front of him and blocking the door. “I'm not the one who begged for it. Where--  _why_  are you going?” 

Daud crossed his arms. “Why does it concern you?” 

She clenched her hands into fists. Forced them flat. “I lost you once. I'm not letting it happen again.” 

As if in surrender, Daud looked down. Her heart clenched. He could, she knew, transverse away and she wouldn't be able to stop him. But she trusted that he wouldn't. 

“I'm going to Morley.” 

“Morley? Why? What's in Morley? I know you aren't  _running_ , Daud.” She breathed in. He eyed her with a mixture of wariness and fondness, the former she appreciated and the latter she felt as bittersweet daggers to her heart. “I've seen the papers in your room. You're  _chasing_  something.”

Daud nodded. His eye, the scarred one, crinkled and half-shut. “You don't have to come with me.” 

“I didn't offer.” But she was considering it.  _Oh_ , she was. She had a new life; granted, with old people, new and softer even so. Some days when she allowed herself to smooth down the time-worn sketch, she truly thought Dierdre would have loved this place-- but Daud was like a father to her. A father, a commander. She would hear him out and withhold judgement until then. She worried the bottom edge of her top lip between her teeth.

“So what is it?”

Daud stared her down. Not for the first time, Billie noticed how he seemed so much smaller than she remembered. “The Eyeless were just a puddle. I've found the ocean.” 

“And this ocean--  _where_  are you going?” 

“I'm going to Shindaery Peak.” 


	2. Severance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have been listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTVG6lbyNEg) nonstop. Triple drabble incoming!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between Chapters 8 & 9.

“I was surprised by how much like waking up it felt.”

Domenico balanced the squirming pup on his legs and let her gnaw at his fingers with tiny, sharp teeth. Rulfio reached across the gulf from one kitchen chair to another to scratch her soft, bristly chin. All small young things had such soft skin, like silk. When he ventured into the high Overseer's office many years ago, he'd set his hand down on an exceptionally soft stole left behind by a noblewoman; his gut curdled with the realization that the fur couldn't have come from a pup older than a month. Rulfio, as any Overseer, understood that there was a cold necessity to death. He was still allowed to frown upon the raising of things only for death. 

Pups. Children.

“And...” Domenico hissed. Words cut off as the pup gnawed his knuckle. “Ah, _Biela_ , gentle--! And it felt so strange at first. How did it feel for you?”

Rulfio hummed. “Less like waking up. More like jumping into cold water.”

Biela whuffed. Rulfio scratched her head. 

“You said water. Now she wants a bath.” Domenico grinned. Rulfio sighed, faux-exasperated, and flipped one tiny ear up before scooting back and standing. 

“Well, I'll get the rest of them.”

“Wait, Rulfio.” Domenico held Biela close to his chest and looked up at him, indomitable smile dampened somewhat. “How long did it take?”

Rulfio raised his brows. “Did what take?”

“Until you felt like yourself again?” They both knew better than to let their voices shake. Rulfio, though, knew that if he was asking as much it had to have been gnawing at him for a good long while.

“Truthfully, I don’t think I have.”

“Oh.” Domenico looked away, down, fiddling with Biela’s paws as she whined at him.

“I’ll get the hounds.”

“Okay.”


	3. The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots of the garden.

**Pull Up The Dead Things**

 

Autumn came. The beans growing up a trellis turned first crackly brown, then brittle white. Billie found herself on her knees in garden beside Domenico as they shared the task of clearing the plot. Zeca lounged in the wan heat of the sun, her tail beating a steady thwap, thwap, thwap along the brick walkway. Billie wrapped a hollow sheath of beanstalk around her hand and tugged, pulling out the dead plant by the roots. The repetitive movement wasn't as complicated as blade forms; soothing, nonetheless. She wiped the back of her neck with her hand. Domenico dropped from a squat to his knees, groaned, and stretched. 

“Hey, Billie, do you have the trowel?”

She shrugged. Domenico grumbled and cast his eyes around the garden, finally locating the tool stuck in the dirt. He groaned again, louder, but then seemed to brighten up and snapped his fingers.

“Zeca!”

She looked up-- muzzle dropped, teeth sharp and wicked, tongue lolling out. 

“Bring me,” he ordered, pointing to the trowel. Zeca padded over to the tool and picked it up, trotted over and dropped it at his feet. He scratched her head and grinned. 

“I've been teaching them commands.”

“Useful,” Billie offered, nearly halfheartedly. 

 

**Tear Out The Living**

 

Purple stems, like bruising. When Billie severed one with gardening shears it bled a milky fluid that made her skin itch wherever it touched. Purple flowers sprouted from the long, callous vine. If the plant had been courteous enough to stay in one area, Billie might have found it charming; instead it grew, and grew, and steadily choked out everything else that tried to grow. It needed to be exterminated before it reached the vines. 

“We're going to burn them,” Rinaldo said, settling down next to her with a pair of gloves and a glass of water. “I'll take these to the burn pile.”

“Thanks, Rinaldo.”

He smiled and clapped her on the shoulder. She nearly unbalanced, but took it in stride and viciously tugged another handful of coarse vines, milky blood.

**Kindling**

 

The next day, they trimmed one of the old trees lining the edge of the property. They gathered the droppings in a pile, almost as big as Billie was tall, and then separated them; leaves, twigs, for kindling. Bigger branches, to dry and use as firewood, because the house was old enough that it had a wood stove. Billie and Thomas took the job of stripping twigs from branches, tossing each into the assigned pile.

When they took a break to eat and drink, play with the hounds, Billie tossed Zeca one of the smoother branches. Her eyes kept catching the pile of branches that she'd stripped; naked, sheared from each other. 

At least, she thought, the work would be worth it when they were warm. 


	4. Visitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble set right before Chapter 4!

“You've taken many in, Daud. Street kids. Murderers. Former gang members with nowhere to go.” He paused, head tilted, arms crossed. “Overseers.”

Daud bared his teeth. “Don't bring them into this, Outsider.”

The Outsider smiled. Daud could find neither cruelty or kindness, only the mild amusement of a child watching bees caught in a jar. The mark on the back of his hand ached sharply. “You never hesitated to.”

He relented, though, and uncrossed his arms to gesture. “You may have disappeared, Daud, but you will live in some memories forever.” 

He faded away, leaving Daud to the wracking pain of the cage. 


	5. power, worth, valor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rinaldo wakes in the Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my GOD i keep saying i'll write billie in the void but i never do! shame on me! anyway no outsider in this one at least.

He doesn't know why he's woken up here if not for the Void detecting bits of itself trapped within him and chasing it the way fever chases cold. 

The Void is, ironically, a crowded and claustrophobic place. It's set up a facsimile of Bottle Street, broken off in places and set to hang in the ethereal nothingness. Rinaldo doesn't have the advantage of black magic in his bones to carry him across the gaps. He has to seize planks of wood from boarded-up doors, long strips of corrugated tin, or simply pray that he can throw himself across. 

It leads him to the old whiskey factory. It leads him down. It leads him, finally, to a purpled shrine where the still should be. On it is a rune and a bottle of whiskey. 

With the uncommon control he has over his own actions and thoughts Rinaldo is inclined to believe that it's a little more than a dream. Because he is alone, he chooses to treat it as such. 

Instead of reaching for the rune he paces the length of the still room. He tries not to look at the shrine standing stolid and threateningly against the wall like an animal crouched before attack. Different from the vacant stretch of the rest of the Void a sense of unease permeates the room. Ozone, the sour smell of spilled whiskey, damp and dark places left unattended by people busy working the still and now growing things of their own. Rinaldo doesn't know how much of it is memory floundering to match the location to a sense or the Void itself assembling itself into a semblance of familiarity. 

The rune hums. Rinaldo approaches.

It’s Galia. If not, it makes him think of her, and he hasn’t talked to her in so long that he will speak to an empty room if need be.

+

“The alcohol. Zhukov. Going back to things that hurt you just because you felt like they made you strong.” Again, he desperately hopes for some sort of a reply. The shrine's purple light ebbs and flows but nothing comes of it. Rinaldo sits down, cross-legged, and pulls the bottle from next to the rune; unscrewing the cap, he finds naught a drop. He doesn't know what he expected. "Zhukov didn't try to distort my future because he didn't think it was worth it. He did it to you... How many times, you told me? He saw it in you. I did, too. You had it just as much as Daud.” The words trip out of him like the first hesitant crackles of an arc pylon, smoothing out only after his words go unanswered. "I know you didn't like Billie, but after all of it, I like her. I think you'd like her.” He turns the bottle over to see his contorted reflection curl over the curves. “I think she'd like you too.” 

What else? Words and thoughts crowd in his head, in his throat. _I miss you_ 's and accusations and reminiscing. “I think you'd like Serkonos.”

The Void nips at his bare hands. The bottle feels like ice. He sets it in his lap and curls his hands into loose fists. “It's warm here. Like it never was in Dunwall. You told me that you only felt warm when you were drunk, after the Bond broke.” 

He knows better than to expect a reply but still welcomes one. 

“I miss you, Galia.”


End file.
